Matt Forbeck

I must keep writing, he says, or I’ll die. He’ll kill me the way he has the others, take my skin, tan it, and bind my books with it, transforming them into the most prized editions of my work in the world.

Like some modern Scheherezade, I must keep spinning one story after another if I want to keep his poisoned pen from piercing my throat. Just keep my tired fingers typing, tapping out my desperate tales.

I will laugh last though. I will welcome death when I am a writer with nothing left to say.

[Last year, I wrote six-word stories. This time around, I thought I'd stretch my fingers a bit and go for triple digits. The story above is exactly 100 words, including the title.]